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More poems by Edwin Arlington RobinsonEdwin Arlington Robinson | Print this page.Print | View and Write CommentsComments | Books by Edwin Arlington RobinsonBooks by Edwin Arlington Robinson

The Mill

Edwin Arlington Robinson

The miller's wife had waited long,
    The tea was cold, the fire was dead;
And there might yet be nothing wrong
    In how he went and what he said:

"There are no millers any more,"
    Was all that she had heard him say;
And he had lingered at the door
    So long that it seemed yesterday.

Sick with a fear that had no form
    She knew that she was there at last;
And in the mill there was a warm
    And mealy fragrance of the past.
What else there was would only seem
    To say again what he had meant;
And what was hanging from a beam
    Would not have heeded where she went.

And if she thought it followed her,
    She may have reasoned in the dark
That one way of the few there were
    Would hide her and would leave no mark:
Black water, smooth above the weir
    Like starry velvet in the night,
Though ruffled once, would soon appear
    The same as ever to the sight.

Added: 16 Jan 2002 | Last Read: 23 Jan 2018 5:03 AM | Viewed: 8930 times

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URL: http://plagiarist.com/poetry/2486/ | Viewed on 23 January 2018.
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